


"Pull over.  Let me drive for awhile."

by Wrathofscribbles



Series: 100 ways (to say I love you) [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 05:57:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16613228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: It's a simple trip, but that doesn't mean the reasons behind it are simple.





	"Pull over.  Let me drive for awhile."

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StrongheartMaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrongheartMaid/gifts).



> **Big bold reminder that Final Fantasy XV and all of its content is property of Square Enix.** I just like to play in the sandpit they've created for the fans.

He’s slow to rouse at first, the tousle of wind through his hair a welcome pull to days gone by where he slouched in the passenger seat and jammed his head _just so_ at the precise angle necessary for maximum comfort, the purr of the Regalia’s engine and Prompto’s chatter background noise more soothing than any half-forgotten lullaby his mother used to sing, the gentle thrum through his magic as Ignis brushed a phantom hand over the shield around himself - his _soul_ \- the key to unspooling every knot of tension wound through him, just like that.

But they’re not in the Regalia and Prompto’s not talking and the jeep’s too clanky and cantankerous an old lady to let him sleep for very long, jostling him over another pothole in the road with such unexpected ferocity he almost puts his head through the window.  He startles fully awake at that, blinks around at the scenery going by at too slow a speed for his liking - hardly any other drivers on the road with the world left floundering in the sun after a decade in darkness and Ignis still insists on driving like a Grandma.  How long has he been driving now…?

“Weren’t you supposed to switch with Gladio?”  Gladio, who can somehow still read, make sense of the words, and keep his place no matter how many times his ass bounces in the seat.  Gladio, who meets his gaze when Noctis twists around in his seat to take stock of their arrangements, cutting his eyes to the back of Ignis’s head twice and raising his brows in _significance._   There’s some digging to be done here, some prying into whatever discussions were held during his slumber, and he chances a glance at Prompto in hopes his friend might be able to shed some light - but no, there’s the reason for the absence of chatter.  Head tipped back, arms folded in tight, legs smooshed up against the door, silent as death itself in his sleep.  Well damn.

Ignis’s reply, when it comes, is a foreign thing, a clipped “I’ll manage” that settles a lead weight in Noct’s belly, two simple words _screaming_ of tension, of something amiss, and he can’t make heads or tails of it.

He _should_ ask what’s wrong, he _wants_ to, but he knows Ignis, knows he’ll downplay whatever’s obviously grinding his gears, and inquires how far they’ve still to go instead, glares daggers into the side of Ignis’s head when he doesn’t even afford him a passing glance from the endless stretch of road.

“Eighty miles.”  Ignis replies, calm as ever, poker face firmly in place, and Noct’s irritation spikes so sharply that he hurriedly jams his hands between his thighs for fear of lighting up the interior of the jeep like a fireworks display and shocking them all within an inch of their lives - an occurrence so shamefully frequent with the Regalia it was a) a miracle she’d survived as long as she did and b) a joke still very much alive and kicking with Cindy (“if ya’ll want a chaperone I should start chargin’ double the towage fee”).

“That’s another… what, two hours driving, at the speed you’re going?”

“As I said, Noctis, I’ll manage.”

 _I won’t kill him for being a stubborn git.  I won’t kill him for being a stubborn git.  I won’t kill him for being a stubborn git._   “Pull over. Let me drive for awhile.”

“It’s fi-”

“Ignis Scientia if you say _‘it’s fine’_ and expect me to believe you, I’m gonna stab you through the foot and make sure it damn well _isn’t_ just so you’ll surrender custody of the steering wheel.  Now _pull over_ and let me drive for awhile.  I’m not asking.”  Now, if it was him behind the wheel, he’d have stomped on the brakes for spite and ragdolled them all in their seats, or he _would_ have back in the days of being a testy, immature little shit.  But Ignis has never been one for grand displays of retaliation and so relents with a sigh and gradual decrease in speed that has the anxious fidgeting of fingers coming to a halt and Noctis is rather proud of the fact there are no sparks to be seen when he frees his hands from their makeshift prison.  Not a single flicker!

They’re the only ones on the road for miles and Ignis still turns on the hazard lights before vacating his seat.

“I’ve got this,” Gladio pipes up without prompting, tugging lightly on the magic binding them all together, easier to throw around in a confined space than the slab of metal he calls a weapon, and Noctis flashes a grateful smile before bolting to intercept Ignis at the back of the jeep, smacks a hand against the rear window to bar his path and -

Shit, sleeping Prompto.  Shit shit shit.   _I will catch you a whole damn tuna if you keep him sleeping peacefully, Carbuncle, please?_

“Noct -”

“We need to talk.  And by we I mean _you_.  None of us are going anywhere until you spill the beans.”

“You hate beans.”

_“Ignis.”_

Ignis bristles at the warning in his tone, eyes flashing in a way that’d have him dissecting every meal for a week afterwards to find the hidden vegetables, pettiness met and _matched_ with every head-splitting _awful_ song on the radio for the duration of their stay in the Regalia.  But his defiance, his _avoidance_ , has no place here and Noctis firmly plants himself in place, lifts his chin in _challenge_.  This is one test of will he won’t be losing.

He seriously contemplates pulling a fishing lure from the Armiger and tossing it at the idiot’s head just for an excuse to warp tackle him over the crash barrier and into the bushes, but just as the phantom tingles overtake his hand Ignis blinks, rolls his shoulders back with a sigh and pulls himself to his full height, _surrender_.

“Walk with me,” he says, and illuminates their path with a snap of his fingers, fire answering his summons like an eager puppy after a treat, crackling merrily above their heads, indifferent to the tension between them.  Ignis walks and Noctis follows, away from the jeep and two pairs of ears that’ll try to give them privacy but pick up on something anyway should they stay in such close proximity.  He keeps watch as they slip through the night, a lifetime’s warnings of daemons and experiencing their savagery firsthand not something he can simply stick in a drawer and shut away after a month or five even though he _knows_ down to his bones that the Scourge is gone, taking the daemons with it.  Caution marking every step Ignis takes, too, every rustle of leaves or creak in the branches drawing his hands up in preparation to summon his daggers, the bond between them alight with the magic pulsing between them, rushing to one then the other and back again.

Ignis calls a halt when the jeep is no longer in view, falling back into old habits as he removes his glasses and takes to cleaning them of dirt and Noctis goes to him on quiet footsteps to pluck them from his grip, sit them delicately atop his own head as he sets his hands on his hips and glowers at him until Ignis opens his mouth to say something, snaps it closed again with an audible click of teeth.  So Noctis takes it upon himself to start the conversation instead.

“You’re gonna drive yourself to the point of exhaustion like you did when we had Niflheim on our asses.  What’s got a bee in your bonnet, Iggy?”

“It’s foolish,” he replies and deliberately avoids any attempt at eye contact when he starts fussing with the cuff of his sleeve instead, unbuttons it and starts rolling the damn thing up as if they’re still camped out in Ravatogh rather than trudging through _very exposed plains_ that do absolutely fuckall to shield either of them from the nip in the air.

“Stop that,” he snaps, and smacks at the offending hand until Ignis abandons that senseless little task too and blows out a gusty sigh that speaks volumes to the stress winding him up tighter than an MT’s chest plate.  “Are you gonna tell me what’s wrong, or am I gonna need to order it out of you?  And before you even think of lying, be ready to say it to my face.”

Ignis sways on his feet, weight shifting as though he’s about to put distance between them, turn his back and walk off or dart around him or _something_ , anything to avoid this conversation, and Noctis is fully prepared to chase after him but - then fingers are sliding into his hair and tugging just enough to tip his head and a forehead rests against his and he whispers Ignis’s name, slides his arms around a trim waist and settles in for the _time_ Ignis needs to gather his thoughts.

“I need the memories replaced,” is the explanation eventually offered and his fingers curl in Ignis’s shirt, grip it _tight_ as his heart gives a painful kick to the ribs.

“Ignis -”

 _“I need them replaced_ because they lead to Insomnia, and I still wake every morning with the memory of your blood on my hands and the chill of death on your skin.  I don’t know how else to convince myself this is real, except retrace our steps as we are now, as we were then.”

“And you need to drive the entire distance to Caem because that’s exactly what happened last time.”

“I’m sorry.”

 _“No,"_ he breathes, cups that tortured face and sweeps his thumbs under eyes bright with a suspicious gleam he won’t comment on, “no, don’t, it’s - no.  I get it.  Gods, Iggy, _I get it_.  We’re all struggling with - everything - I guess.  Maybe we could set up camp?  There should still be a haven nearby.”

“That won’t be necessary, Noct.  I meant it when I said I’d manage.”

“You shouldn’t have to!”

_“Noct.”_

_“Iggy.”_

He pops the melancholy mood when he kicks the fucker in the shin and Ignis laughs.

* * *

“Well shit.”  Prompto says, and Noctis finds himself in mute agreement, wonders if he looks like the perfect depiction of _poleaxed_ as they all stare at the husk of his Dad’s favoured retreat, nature itself curling away from the decayed remains.  And here he’d been hoping at least _one_ bed had survived a decade of daemonic turmoil.

“Hope you packed the air mattresses in the Armiger, Princess, or this is going to be a very bumpy stay.”

“Suck a cactus, Gladio.”

“Now now, gentlemen, no need to squabble like children.  I planned for this.”  He doesn’t trust that smirk _at all_ , not on Ignis’s face.

And damn well wants to run for the hills, screaming all sorts of curses at the Astrals for his misfortune, when Ignis reaches into the Armiger with an entirely unnecessary flourish and yanks out the tent he never wanted to see again in his lifetime.

“Can I just sleep in the jeep?”

“Absolutely not, darling.”

_Goddammit._


End file.
